


The Christmas Collection

by Rosalindfan



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalindfan/pseuds/Rosalindfan
Summary: Set after 'Casualties of War', Foyle no longer works for Hastings Police, but the arrival of a suspected criminal on his doorstep has unexpected consequences.
Kudos: 13





	The Christmas Collection

The Christmas Collection

December 1943

Eight months, thought Christopher Foyle as he climbed the hill from the town to his home in Steep Lane the day before Christmas Eve. Eight months since his life had changed completely and he was still unsure whether it was for the better. Eight months since his resignation had been accepted by Assistant Commissioner Parkins and he had cleared his desk and left the small dark police station that had been his second home for more years than he cared to calculate. 

He remembered that day clearly; the smell of the leather on the chair that he’d refused as he handed the AC the letter, the chill of the March wind as he went to find Milner and Sam to tell them the news. He didn’t know which was worse - the look on Milner’s face which was a mixture of disbelief and anxiety or the sound of Sam’s voice breaking as they said goodbye. He’d not set foot in the station since and it had been quite a while before he’d met any of his former colleagues. His time, at first, had been taken up with his god-daughter, Lydia, and her son who’d stayed with him for several months. But once they had gone his days lacked the structure that his previous employment and the routine of Jimmy’s school-times had given. Truth be told, despite his interests, he felt at a loose end.

The hallway was chilly as he let himself in but the living room fire he’d left banked and guarded warmed the large room. He shook the rain from his coat and hung it in the hallway, then went through to the small kitchen with the last of his shopping. That, he thought, was one good thing about having time on his hands – he could queue for what little was in the shops, and despite there being less than any previous year he actually managed better than when he was working. He had a piece of mutton ready for his Christmas lunch along with the ubiquitous potatoes and carrots; he’d even managed to barter some apples from the garden for the promise of a small slice of Mrs Robinson’s Christmas pudding. There was no chance, he knew, of Andrew being home – his last letter had made that clear – so there were no presents to buy or receive even if he could have found anything that would qualify for the description. In honour of the season he’d allowed himself a ridiculously expensive bottle of mediocre Scotch which, with luck, would last until February.

Shopping put away, he poked the fire to a decent blaze, ate a one-egg omelette for his lunch and made a cup of tea. The dark clouds made the room gloomy even though it would not be properly dark for a few hours yet, but putting on the light would require doing the blackout so he sat in the firelight and wondered whether he should bother putting up the few decorations he’d fetched from the attic room. There was little likelihood of anyone coming to visit and he’d only get caught up in painful memories as he unwrapped the trinkets and baubles that he knew were in the carefully labelled box. No, he thought, no mileage in wallowing in the past; there was a new year to look forward to, one that may bring the end of the war. On Christmas Day he’d go to church, eat his lunch and treat the day like any other.

A sharp rap on the door roused him from his thoughts. Putting down his half-finished tea he opened the door to a blast of cold air and dampness. A woman stood on the top step and smiled cheerfully at him.   
“Hello,” she chirruped “Merry Christmas!”  
Foyle frowned. He had no idea who this was but her whole demeanour was one of familiarity.   
“Um, yes. Merry Christmas,” he replied studying her face and racking his brain for any clue to her identity.  
The sound of coins jingling caught his attention and he looked down to see her gloved hand shaking a collection tin. It resembled a small biscuit tin but instead of the original lid a piece of metal with a slot cut into it had been tacked onto the top.  
“I’m collecting!”   
“Obviously,” Foyle replied, head tilted.  
“For charity.”   
Foyle doubted that very much and opened his mouth to say so. His intention was to warn her of the crime she was almost certainly committing and send her on her way with a flea in her ear. As it was she pre-empted his speech by rattling the tin again.  
“The Police Widows and Orphans Fund - it’s a worthy cause, don’t you think?”  
“Certainly do.” Foyle gave her his most charming smile. “So worthy I’ll put a quid in.”  
He made a show of patting his pockets. “Ah!” He raised his eyebrows engagingly. “My wallet is upstairs. Come in, wait out of the rain.”  
He held the door wide and the woman stepped inside.   
“Close the door behind you if you’d be so kind. Don’t want the rain gusting in.”  
She complied and stood in the hallway, her coat dripping a perfect circle onto his tiled floor.  
“Won’t be a moment, why don’t you dry out by the fire? Didn’t realise it was so wet. Deserve a couple of quid for the effort.”  
The woman’s eyes opened wide and he was sure she’d still be there when he came back. He indicated the door to the living room and tilted his head invitingly.  
“Go on through. Get warm. “  
He watched from the stairway as she hesitantly went into the living room then trod heavily on the same step a few times. Waiting a few moments he repeated the subterfuge and returned to the hallway. Police Widows and Orphans Fund indeed! She’d made a big mistake there; this deserved more than a mere warning. He’d make a citizen’s arrest if necessary and escort her to the Police Station, make sure that the money she’d already collected actually went to the correct place. It wasn’t exactly legal, a citizen’s arrest for such an offence, but he knew he had the knowledge and presence to pull it off. He retrieved his wallet from his jacket on the hallway hook and quietly opened the door, half-expecting to find her rummaging through the bureau, but she was standing, back to the fire gazing around the room, steam rising gently from her coat.

Foyle walked to the small table that held his cup and picked it up. “Gone cold,” he observed. “Want one?”  
The woman shook her head. “No, no. I must be going. Thank you for the opportunity to dry a little, but I must get off.” She rattled her tin again and eyed him expectantly.  
Foyle looked her up and down – smart, if wet coat, sensible but fashionable shoes, hair rolled in what he understood to be a modern style under a sodden headscarf. She didn’t look in need of money, but one never could tell.  
“Yes, we’ll be off. To the Police Station.”  
The woman frowned. “Excuse me?” she said but her face flushed a little. “No, I mean, I need to collect more before I take it in there.”  
“And who will you be taking it to?” Foyle asked, shrugging on his jacket. “Who is the assigned officer?”  
The woman’s eyes narrowed at his words. “Um, I’m not sure,” she stammered. Her brow furrowed. “Oh, Milner. That’s it. Mr Milner.”  
“That so?” Foyle put on his hat and overcoat and picked up his keys. “Let’s see if you’re right, Miss…”  
“Bate. Evelyn Bate,” the woman replied then closed her mouth quickly. Her face fell and she looked at him fearfully.  
“And, um, I’ll take the tin, shall I?” Foyle held out his hand and she put the already heavy tin in it. “Come on.”  
He led her out of the house, wondering if she’d make a run for it, but the wet slope seemed to deter such an action. He took her arm firmly and they walked in silence into town and to the Police Station.

“Mr Foyle, sir. Long time, no see. How are you?” Sergeant Brooke smiled broadly.  
“Sergeant,” Foyle acknowledged. “Mr Milner in?”  
“I believe he’s in his office, sir,” Brooke said cheerfully. He looked at the woman curiously. “Why don’t you just pop along and say hello.”  
“I will,” said Foyle and he turned towards Miner’s office.  
He turned back briefly. “Sergeant Walker still in charge of the Widows and Orphans, is he?”  
At Brooke’s nod Foyle gripped the woman’s arm tighter and propelled her down the corridor.

The distinctive smell of the building was as familiar as that of his own home, although there was an unusual tang that he couldn’t quite identify permeating the corridor. He spared a quick glance at his office door, the nameplate now reading ‘DCS Meredith’ and turned back to the woman. She didn’t appear as worried as he’d anticipated and he had a moment’s dread that his ‘copper’s instinct’ had failed him. The blinds on the window into Milner’s office were closed and he knocked on the door to hear Milner’s voice inviting him in.

Foyle opened the door and stopped in his tracks, unable to take in what he was seeing. Milner’s office was transformed. Across the ceiling hung paper chains obviously home-made from magazines and the desk had been pushed against the wall, cleared of its usual accoutrements and covered with a white cloth that sparkled. Across it an artful arrangement of bare branches which also twinkled with a white snow-like substance were intertwined with holly and laurel. A small fir tree stood in a terracotta pot, its short boughs adorned with tiny cut-out pictures and ribbon bows, while a tinfoil star was perched on the top, shining brightly with the light from the desk lamp angled toward it. The filing cabinet stood in its usual place but instead of boxes piled on top it held a tray of glasses next to the source of the smell. This proved to be a large bowl of steaming liquid with a definite alcoholic whiff that he would put money on being rum. Several chairs had been brought in and were arranged in the available space.  
Milner leaned against the window ledge with a smug smile on his face and next to him stood Sam grinning fit to burst.   
“You did it, Evie! Well done!” Sam virtually whooped with excitement.   
Foyle turned to his would-be fraudster who favoured him with a serene smile, looking completely different to the chirpy collector he’d ‘arrested’.   
“Merry Christmas, Mr Foyle,” she said holding out her hand. “Evelyn Brown, at your service.”  
Foyle shook her hand. “The bait, I see,” he growled with a turned-down smile. “Clever.”  
“Evie is an actress,” Sam told him. “Well, she’s in the ATS, but she used to play at the Rep.”  
Milner came forward. “Merry Christmas, sir. We thought you may like to join our Christmas party. May I take your coat?”  
Foyle gave a resigned sigh as he handed his coat to Milner. He’d been well and truly manoeuvred but he may as well stay and have a drink. Sam, whose red nose suggested that she’d already sampled the punch, launched herself at him and kissed his cheek and Foyle sat down quickly before she attempted anything more.   
“Never had a Christmas party before,” he observed and saw a look exchanged between Sam and Milner.  
“Well, the war’s lingering,” Milner began.   
“And we felt in need of cheering up,” finished Sam.  
“It’s not much, sir, but we scraped together a few bits and pieces,” Milner said.   
“Mmm,” Foyle agreed, “don’t want to be seen as a Scrooge.” He sniffed the glass of punch Milner gave him.  
“And we miss you, sir,” Sam blurted out. “It’s not the same any more without you here.”   
Foyle looked at his feet, uncomfortable with such an outburst.  
“And DCS Meredith has taken today off,” explained Milner.  
“Meredith has told Sam she’s no longer needed.” Miss Brown’s soft voice came from behind him.  
“Evie!” Sam looked on the verge of tears. “I’ve got another job though, sir,” she assured him. “But it’s lovely for us all to be together again, don’t you think?”   
Foyle looked up at the young woman who had so exasperated and mellowed him in equal measure. “I do, Sam,” he assured her and was rewarded with her usual sunny smile. 

It was fully dark by the time the gathering broke up. Brooke had joined them with a few thinly cut sandwiches to soak up the punch, and there had even been token presents wrapped in painted newspaper handed out. He’d discovered that the office decorations had been done by Evelyn Brown, who, when pressed, revealed that the frosty sparkle had been achieved with a solution of Epsom salts, and that the rum had come from a grateful publican who’d been helped by Milner. Sam had proudly told the dustbin-lid story, Milner had recounted the ‘amateur sleuth’ tale and he’d reminded them of the time Sam had tried to get information and ended up having her bottom pinched. Brooke had admitted his dread at having to ask DCS Foyle for his light bulbs and Miss Brown had told them how she’d lured him out of his house and shaken the tin to reveal a collection of beer bottle tops.  
Sam had already left for a shift at her new job when Foyle put on his overcoat and shook Milner’s hand.  
“Thank you, Milner. Enjoyed it.”  
“Good to see you again, sir. Sam’s right – it’s not the same around here”.  
Foyle smiled. He appreciated Milner’s quiet, understated manner; the fact was that he’d enjoyed being there more than he cared to admit and Milner seemed to understand this but made no comment. Miss Brown stood up and reached for her coat; Foyle held it out for her.  
“Least it’s dried,” he said. “Far to go?”  
“Not really,” she replied. “I live not far from you, actually, at the top of Old Town.”  
Foyle felt the rum punch warming his body as he opened the door of the station. “Then you must let me walk you home,” he said.

“ATS?” he queried as they walked back the way they’d come, his arm now linked with hers rather than gripping it.  
“Searchlight projector operator,” she replied, “Southern command, based at Plymouth.”  
Foyle turned to her in surprise. “Busy down there with the docks, I imagine” he murmured.  
She laughed. “Very. Some of the girls lose their voices regularly with all the shouting. But the Americans are based next to us at Crowhill and they’re good fun.”  
They arrived at a large house two streets away from his own. Foyle stood, hands thrust in pockets, as she found her key.  
“Thank you for the escort, Mr Foyle. And I’m sorry about tricking you, but Sam said you’d probably refuse a direct invitation.”  
“Mmm,” Foyle growled. “Forgiven. When do you go back?”  
“Tomorrow.” She sighed. “The Germans have no respect for Christmas tradition.”  
She spoke in a light-hearted way but Foyle recognised the trace of fear and dread; he’d heard it enough times in Andrew’s conversation.  
“Well, stay safe, Miss Brown,” he said softly. To his surprise she leaned forward and her lips met his in an easy gentle kiss that warmed him as much as the rum.  
“Merry Christmas, Mr Foyle. Goodnight.” She smiled and left him standing on the path.   
He went home and put up the decorations, humming Christmas carols as he did so.


End file.
